


A Different Kind of Happy Ending

by AceQueenKing



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Destroy Ending, Disabled Character, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 07:13:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2683958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceQueenKing/pseuds/AceQueenKing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shepard may never walk again, but Garrus shows her that they can still dance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Different Kind of Happy Ending

Garrus hates London.

It is cold; strange.

Not just in the architecture, or the food, or even the people. It’s the very geography of the place itself that is strange: there’s water, everywhere he looks, under a sky that is always murky and grey.

The entire city _smells_ like rain, a sweet dust scent that burns his nose whenever he walks to the one dextro restaurant across from the hospital.

Even the wafting fragrance of _ocimum_ , so far from home, doesn’t quite wipe out the sweet-dust smell.

He suspects that this is, in fact, because it rains, _all the time_.

He watches it pour against her windows, a rat-a-tat-tat that reminds him vaguely of gunfire and makes him anxious.

He gently massages Shepard’s sleeping hand – very lightly, so she won’t awaken – reminding her that he is here, and he will keep her safe.

“It’s raining again, isn’t it?” Shepard whispers.

“Yes.” He doesn’t think he’ll ever quite get used to her new voice – the one he knows burned away when the citadel came crashing down on her. This soft whisper-thin voice is nothing like the booming, brassy Shepard voice of his memories, the one he can remember yelling for him all the way across the Presidium.

A Presidium that no longer exists, he remembers, and his fingers reflexively curl tighter around her own.

It’s a damn _miracle_ she lived through that.

He is so very, _very_ thankful.

She looks down at their linked hands and smiles weakly. It’s the sort of look she’s given him a lot, lately; a twin face, both happy and sad.

“You don’t have to stay here, Garrus.” Her voice is melancholy, and he yearns to draw her sadness into his body. “I know it’s not very interesting, being my nurse-maid.”  
  
“It’s OK. I mean, the view _is_ pretty nice.” He jokes, and is rewarded with a small smile that he loves. This one is a more familiar Shepard smile.

“Even so.” She squeezes his hand. “I know your dad and your sister already left for Palaven. And you can’t tell me that you don’t – that you don’t miss it.”  
  
“I’m not leaving, Shepard.” He says.

He does miss Palaven. He dreams of it, always. Warm, orange-red skies and silver trees, and Shepard laid out on the moon-lit sand, her radiant smile shining as blindingly as Manae in the sky.

Someday, he will make that dream a reality. He will take her home, and he will take her to the sea, and she will smile. And that will be enough.

“I wouldn’t blame…” She pauses. “I know you didn’t sign up for this, Garrus.”

“Shepard…” He doesn’t understand it.

She is _alive_. She is _alive_ and they are _together_. What part of that wouldn’t he want? What part of that does she think is wrong?

“I want to be with you.” He says, and hopes that it is enough to prove his loyalty to her.

She turns to the window and he watches it with her, the rain slowing now, gentle hiss rather than heavy gun-fire. This noise is oddly comforting; reminds him of his sister’s sleepy whispers.

Then he hears a cry, soft and sharp.

He looks at Shepard.

A small river of tears are flowing down her face.  
  
His heart wrenches.

Unable to stop himself, he cups her face with his hands, careful not to break open any of her new wounds.  
  
Her eyes are watery, scared. “Garrus, please…”

“Shepard…” His talon caresses her face. “There is nowhere – _nowhere_ – I’d rather be, than by your side.”  
  
She bites her lip and looks away. Says nothing.

He carefully leans his head down to nuzzle the top of her head to his own. Physical contact is something they can do only fleetingly – her skin too new, too soft for him to hold for long.

They say she had third degree burns all over her body when she fell. The skin grafts and medi-gel have hidden a great deal of her scars from view, but he still sees them.

Her scars aren’t just physical. When she looks at him sometimes, like she wonders _how_ he could possibly find her attractive (and he does, he very much does), he knows the scar there is deeper than a few open wounds.

He moves his face lower, pressing his forehead to her own. Her mouth quivers for just a second, and he yearns to kiss her.

“How are you? Do you need anything?” He whispers.  
  
He wishes so badly that he could take her pain, take all of it and bundle it away, deep inside him.

She looks at him, deeply apologetic, and he knows what she’s going to ask.

“OK.”

“You can call a nurse - “  
  
“Not unless you’d prefer.” He carefully pulls her into his arms, her own curling around his neck as he carries her toward her room’s toilet. “I don’t mind, Shepard.”  
  
It makes him feel a little bit useful. It’s true, what he told her – he was never good with a hammer. He’s always been a warrior, but he can do this, can fight to make her feel just a bit more normal.

“You’re amazing.” She sighs as he puts her down and gently pulls down her panties.

Even here – without the barest whisper of sex – that act feels shockingly intimate.

Gently, he maneuvers her body down and looks away, giving her her privacy. She does the rest herself – it takes longer than it used to, but she manages it – and he feels a strong sense of pride.

She’s still his soldier, even if the war they’re fighting is different.

“Ok. I’m ready,” She says, then sighs in familiar - if unwelcome - guilt.

“I’m sorry, Garrus. I’m so sorry.”  
  
“For what?” He gently pulls her clothing back on, picks her up to move back toward the bed. “I told you, I don’t mind.”  
  
“It’s just…” She bites her lip. “This isn’t how I saw our happy ending. We aren’t exactly tangoing off into the sunset, are we?”

He stops short at that, and the hopelessly defeated look on her face utterly breaks his heart.

He holds her still in his arms for a moment, praying to all his ancestors spirits that he will find the best words to convince her how happy he is.

And then an idea comes, bright and burning.  
  
“Who says?” He slowly lowers her onto his feet, carefully setting her strange, bumpy toes on top of his his own, and touches his forehead to hers.

“I can’t even walk, Garrus.”

“Maybe not, but…” He grabs her hand and gently thumbs his talons between her fingers. “You can still dance, Shepard.”

“Garrus, I can’t-“Her objections die away as they begins to turn, swaying to the gentle rhythm of the rain.

“You can.” He nuzzles her cheek with his own. “I’ll show you.”

He slowly twirls her in his arms, one hand holding her bad hand, the other cradling her. “See?”

Shepard looks at him, eyes bright, as he moves across the room, taking her with him, and he flares his mandibles out into a smile.

“You really would be happy with this?” She asks, and even with her whisper-thin voice, he recognizes the emotion that resonates in each and every word: hope.  
  
“Of course.” He hums.

He will never, _ever_ be disappointed in what they have.

Not after six months of praying to see her again, not after a year of gut-churning anxiety that every second was their last, not after six _more_ months of desperate hope that she survived while he was marooned.

She is _here_ and _alive_ and it doesn’t matter that she can’t walk, or that her face is scarred, or that she’ll never scream his name again.

She is here, and he is with her, and that is all that matters. This _is_ happily ever after.

Shepard is quiet, her face pensive.

“I told you, I’ve always got your six, Shepard.” He whispers. “That won’t change.”

Shepard smiles at that, a sweeping, stunning one that reminds him of Menae when Palaven’s sun aligns just right – a blinding wink of bright light, spreading faster and faster across the horizon of her face.

“I love you, Garrus Vakarian.” She says, and he hears his heart pounding a sweet blood-song through his skin.

“I love you, too.” He whispers.  
  
She smiles, and he slowly turns her back toward the bed. Even if he knows she enjoys their dance, he can tell she’s tired – her hand shakes with effort to cling to his own.

The fact that she doesn’t protest as he slowly puts her back down on the bed speaks volumes.

She’ll probably fall asleep soon, and that is fine. She’ll sleep, and he will watch her, keep her safe.

“Garrus?”  
  
“Hmmm?”

“Can you…lay down with me for a bit?”  
  
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” He stares at her body – so frail and small – and worries, not for the first time, that he will hurt her.

“I think it’s the best one I’ve had in a while.”  
  
He gently crawls next to her, trying to share the too small hospital bed. She wraps her arms around his and pulls herself toward him, until they are touching and he can smell the salt-rust scent of her skin.

“I miss this.” She says. “You and me, skin to skin.”

“Me too.” He glides a hand over her shoulder in apology. He misses this most of all – the slide of her arm against his, the soft beat of her heart echoing his own. “But you never have to worry about me going anywhere.”

“Stuck with you, huh?” She says, and her eyes water.

“Yeah.” Her hand trembles at his cheek, and he throws his mandibles into a wide smile. She giggles.

It is the best sound.  
  
“Oh.” She closes her eyes, and he hears her breathing grow deeper. He closes his eyes, and listens to the beautiful duet her deep breath sings with the rain.

“I’m still sorry to put you through this.” She murmurs, sleepily, against his lips. “Not fair to you, is it?”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“You’re a war hero, Garrus. You should go home, become a Primarch - “  
  
“Palaven would fall within a week.” He deadpans. “Maximum.”  
  
“And go home to a loving wife who cooks you a decent _coquam_ \- “  
  
“I make a damn good _coquam_.” He says, and wishes she could taste it.

“…And hug all your adoring children. Instead, you’re serving a life sentence, playing nurse-maid to a human.”  
  
“ _You_ are _not_ a life sentence.” He says, as his voice breaks. “And if I do any of those damn things, then I do them with you.”  
  
“Garrus…We’ll never be able to have children, now.”  
  
He opens his eyes. “Why not?” He nudges her neck with his own. “Don’t have to be able to walk to be a mom.”  
  
“Garrus, I can’t…”  
  
“You _can_.” He kisses the scar on her shoulder. “Even if you never walk again. Shepard. You don’t need to be able to move to feed a baby, or hold one when they cry.”  
  
“I - “  
  
“And don’t think for one second you’re getting out of diaper duty.” He grins.

She closes her eyes and says nothing for a moment.

Then, a question, so quiet he almost misses it: “Can you talk to Wrex, see if maybe down the road, we could…?”  
  
“Yeah.” He hums as the sweet scent of rain hits his nose. “Yeah, I can do that. But you’ll be lucky if he doesn’t burst in here with one for you as soon as he hears you want one.”

She smiles, and her eyes close.

“’m getting sleepy, Garrus.”  
  
“Then sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”  
  
She nods, and her breath slows.

He curls an arm around her, and breathes in her salty scent, mixed with the rain of this strange land.

And he feels home.

London is not his favorite city.

But there is no place in the galaxy he’d rather be.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a meme fic prompt on Tumblr. The prompt words were:
> 
>  **Petrichor** \- The smell of dry rain on the ground.
> 
>  **Tarantism** \- The urge to overcome melancholy by dancing.


End file.
